


do you got plans tonight?

by kalakauuas



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Getting Stood Up, M/M, Shiro is dreamy, as usual, lance being a sweetheart, thirsting over people you just met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 01:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14485782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakauuas/pseuds/kalakauuas
Summary: Lance doesn’t know this guy, but he knows that being stood up is no fun, so. He takes matters into his own hands.(and maybe holds Shiro’s while he’s at it.)...alternate title: just according to keikaku**keikaku means plan





	do you got plans tonight?

**Author's Note:**

> this one goes out to **ritzypotato** on tumblr and shawn mendes in real life 
> 
> (but I really do hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it)

Not to sound creepy, but Lance has been watching this guy and—yeah, okay, so maybe that sounds pretty creepy. But hear him out, hold on! He’s been watching this guy for the past, well, hour, and it’s just sad. Very sad. He feels awful for him, in the way one feels awful for the pets in ASPCA commercials or other equally desolate and hopeless situations. There is truly no justice in the world.

He’s settled on a bench across the park, hands folded in his lap while his leg bounces incessantly. He’s shockingly attractive as well, Lance would like to add, in a charcoal sweater that looks really nice with his skin.

Sometimes he’ll peep at his phone then look up and around, obviously in search of whoever left him to his own devices, the crestfallen look on his face every time he sees that there’s no one coming to him probably visible from space. It spears Lance through the heart every time. But that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is that sitting next to him, almost innocently, is a bouquet of flowers. Purple flowers, and that’s all he can tell from this distance.

The guy showed up with _flowers,_ man. He’s clearly excited for this date, for this mystery person who has yet to show up. Lance doesn’t know him at all, and he doesn’t know his date either, but he’s quickly starting to hate them for making someone, who could probably (god, _hopefully_ ) crush Lance in one hand, take on an expression only sad golden retrievers are supposed to be capable of.

Lance returns to his book, trying so very hard to focus on whatever it’s saying about cognitive dissonance, but he can’t. Not when the words on the page are swimming to form a square jawline and scarred nose, furrowed brows and pursed lips; his call to action. _Do something!_ Repeats itself on the page over and over, multiplying before Lance’s very eyes. Maybe it’s time for a break. He’s been trying to “study” for the past two hours, managing to knock out a grand total of 15 pages, which is more impressive when considering his complete lack of investment in the activity. The day is too nice, weather too warm, for Lance to waste it “studying.”

Or for the guy on the bench to waste it waiting for someone who stood him up.

Sighing, Lance pulls his backpack closer, unzipping it to throw his textbook inside. A glance at his watch tells him it’s 6:10pm, which is perfect, _perfect_ timing. He has a plan in mind and hopefully the stars will align for him, just this once, so he doesn’t make an ass out of himself while trying to do his one good deed of the day. Or maybe he can count this one as extra credit, since he paid for the coffee of the person behind him this morning. He’s really on a roll, isn’t he? Either way, Lance shoulders his backpack and adjusts his baseball cap, Ash Ketchum-style, because it’s go time.

...Go time, as in, the lonely man on the bench decides it’s finally time for him to go… wherever. Probably somewhere his humiliation will be more private, Lance supposes. He watches the man check his phone a final time and heave the absolute biggest sigh that Lance is positive ages him about 40 years, before shoving his hands in the pockets of his (ooh, well-fitted) jeans and walking in the opposite direction.

He leaves the flowers behind.

Something—and he doesn’t know what—compels Lance to rush over to the lonesome bouquet, of what he now sees are hydrangeas, and gingerly take it into his arms. It’s a big bouquet. He was really excited for this date.

“Hey, wait!” Lance says, just loud enough for the man to hear. “You forgot your flowers!”

He tenses up at the sound of Lance’s voice, shoulders jumping nearly to his ears which suddenly bloom a lurid red. Oh. He’s embarrassed. A twinge of regret twists in Lance’s stomach because it’s apparent he didn’t think people were paying attention, or maybe he was just hoping, but now this man’s biggest fears were confirmed thanks to Lance. Way to go.

Either way, the man turns around and gives Lance that sad golden retriever face again. His cheeks are a cute pink, even though Lance’s heart is breaking itself knowing why.

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t really need them anymore.” His lips curve into a smile, the sun hitting him just right and sending Lance careening into a violet-printed shoujo manga panel laden with an absurd amount of sparkling screentone and floating hearts. And cheekbones, definitely cheekbones. _This_ is the guy that got stood up? Mr. Poster Boy for Everything? The most handsome man Lance had ever laid his unworthy eyes on? Again: there is _no_ justice in the world.

“Look, I-I saw that your date never came,” blurts Lance, suddenly overcome by the sheer, raw energy emanating from this man’s eyebrows. No one gets theirs that snatched without having at least killed a man in exchange. Suddenly, Lance’s delicately curved arches feel far too inadequate in comparison. “And I’m so sorry for you, really. That’s shitty.”

“It’s really okay—”

A normal person would’ve stopped by now, or maybe just never have approached this guy in the first place, but Lance doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. “I just, I have no clue why someone would stand you up when you look like Li Shang—”

“You think I look like Li Shang?” God, people probably pay money for this guy to raise his eyebrow like _that_ at them, but here Lance is, getting that treatment for free. Well, free if you don’t count the cost of his dignity.

“I mean! You look like a Disney prince period, not just Shang because you’re Asian, but like you just remind me of him because of the way you carry yourself—dignified you know?—and also because he was always my favorite, he’s super hot— _I mean!”_ Lance slaps a hand over his mouth, scandalized at his own comment.

Some small part of Lance is desperately hoping that this guy feels at least a little bit better about himself. His prior humiliation is easily starting to pale in comparison to Lance’s incredible(ly embarrassing) ability to cram not one, but both his feet into his mouth. This is definitely not how he anticipated this plan to go, but then again he didn’t anticipate encountering the Perfect Man either.

They stare at each other. In the distance, kids are laughing and playing, dogs are barking, parents are talking, but right here? Lance is screaming. Inside of his own head, sure, but screaming nonetheless—anguished, pained, desperate cries for help. If his inner despair shows on his face at all, Lance doesn’t know; all he knows is that he needs to try and salvage something from the absolute wreckage of his plan. He peels away his palm, freeing himself up to say some kind of not-nonsense (sense? English was never his strong suit), but the perfect man beats him to the punch.

“You know, I never got your name. I’m Takashi, but most people call me Shiro, not Shang,” he says, easily. His smile is more relaxed now and, dare Lance say, amused? Shiro extends his right hand, and only then does Lance notice it’s made of sleek metal.

Nonetheless, he takes it. Gives Shiro his best attempt at a firm handshake.

“I’m Lance.”

Shiro nods. “Okay, Lance, it’s nice to meet you. I’m guessing… this isn’t just about the flowers?”

No, it isn’t. It’s about Lance being kind of a bleeding heart who hates seeing people fail in their quests for love, but maybe saying that won’t make him look any less crazy. He barks out a laugh and scratches self-consciously at the back of his head, suddenly unable to look Shiro in the eyes. They’re gray, or possibly silver, and piercing. Knowing. Like looking into the eyes of a cat that surely knows the date of your death. Shiro probably knows everything about Lance by now, with just one look at his sorry, handsome face.

“No,” Lance admits. “Not really. They’re nice and all, but I’m pretty sure you heard me earlier when I said that… that I saw you getting, uh, stood up. And I felt really bad, because no one deserves that. _You—”_ he gestures vaguely at Shiro’s entire body— “don’t deserve that.”

Even if Lance doesn’t know what’s so funny, he warms at Shiro’s laughter, how his face takes on a more boyish quality about it despite his strong features. It’s not malicious, or condescending, although Lance doubts Shiro could ever be either of those things. That said, Lance wants to make Shiro laugh all the time. Lance wants Shiro to let him.

He presses on with newfound confidence that Shiro doesn’t think he’s a complete garbage idiot. “So, I was thinking—and it’s totally fine if you say no! Don’t wanna pressure you—but I was thinking that maybe... You’d like to…” His confidence is waning all too soon. Courage the cowardly dog, or what? His request seemed a lot less absurd, and this conversation less scary, when he was imagining it in his head on the other side of the park.

Lance gulps when he sees that Shiro is waiting expectantly, but his expression suggests that he at least doesn’t think that Lance will say some more dumbass shit. Like he anticipates that what Lance has to say will be worthwhile. It’s nice. If Shiro makes everyone else feel this way, then Lance really, truly, has no idea why his date would ditch him.

“I was thinking maybe you’d like to go to dinner with me instead!” he finally blurts out, like he’s just passed Rigor Mortis Bend, aka the worst part of running the 400m, but Lance knows from experience that afterwards is smooth sailing. Why he’s suddenly remembering his high school track days, he doesn’t know, but hopefully this works out in his favor the way those meets did.

Anyways. A hot blush spreads on his face, down his neck to his chest, because Lance is a full-body blusher, as he realizes what he’s said. He knows what this sounds like, and it doesn’t sound like a stranger just trying to do what he thinks is the right thing. Instead, it sounds like a date.

“That sounds like a date,” Shiro says. The evening sun is _still_ hitting him perfectly. Lance bodily resists the urge to answer with a, _Only if you want it to be._ He settles instead for a squeak.

Shiro crosses his arms and gives a little shrug. “But I can’t say I’m opposed.”

He tilts his head in a way that kills Lance instantly, which is just perfect. As a corpse, how is he supposed to take Shiro on this not-date-but-might-be-a-date?

His soul might have ascended to another plane beyond the human world, but Lance’s corporeal form remains, and somehow it manages to say, “Are you serious?”, as if he doesn’t think Shiro would ever give him the time of day, much less agree to a date, which is exactly what he thinks. After all, someone who belongs on the cover of GQ has no business sharing garlic knots at a corner table in the Garrett’s restaurant with someone like Lance.

Judging by the look on Shiro’s face (if this guy was any less expressive Lance isn’t sure what would become of him), that wasn’t the response he was expecting.

“Was that not what you… wanted me to say?”

“No! Or, it is, but I didn’t actually expect you to say it?” Might as well be honest at this point. Lance is usually… much, much better at acting like he isn’t a complete disaster, but Shiro has just absolutely slam-dunked his false suave disposition into the trash. Although, to be fair, with those looks, Lance would be more than glad to let Shiro slam dunk _him_ in the trash too.

With another unfairly cute tilt of his head, Shiro says, “Well, I’ve always been good at surpassing expectations, if I do say so myself.”

His smile is crooked in a way that almost reminds Lance of himself, and the expressions he tries to pull on the cute girls at school, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Shiro is probably much better at pulling it off than he is.

“Cocky,” Lance says, and he tries to be wry about it.

“Or just confident.” Shiro’s tone still sounds cocky. Not that Lance is complaining. At all.

Lance scrunches up his nose with a little grin, then checks his watch again. 6:18.

“Okay, _hotshot,_ ” he says. “The bus gets here in like, two minutes, so if you’re still down for that dinner… thing… We gotta get going.”

The way he says it sounds casual, cool, but Lance is fully aware of how lame he actually comes across, suggesting the transit as a viable mode of transportation to a dinner with a super hot guy. Not very impressive for a first, and maybe only, not-quite-date. Lance knows he’s not an impressive guy overall, but he’s really trying his best here.

“Or we could just take my car,” says Shiro, pointing with his thumb back at the parking lot, towards a sleek gray Audi that he would, of course, own. It’s like every minute is revealing yet another reason of why this guy is probably way too cool for Lance, and contributing to his overall confusion at his agreement to let Lance take him out at all. Maybe he feels bad for Lance, which is ironic because Lance feels bad for him. Mm, felt bad? That sounds more accurate, because he looks like a much bigger loser than Shiro ever did. Consider that one of his talents.

He laughs, because it’s all he can really do at this point, but there are much worse things. “Or we could just take your car.”

“Perfect.” Shiro pulls out his keys and tosses them up, catching them in his right hand with a chime. In a move so gentlemanly Lance feels like he really did stumble upon a Disney prince, Shiro holds out his left arm, elbow crooked at the perfect angle for Lance to set his hand in. Which he does, because who is he to refuse such an invitation?

His hand fits very nicely on Shiro’s bicep, not even wrapping halfway around—and he has long fingers. They feel even better than they look, to Lance’s pleasant surprise. He pulls himself in just a smidge closer to Shiro’s side, his face burning hot even as he tries to hide in the soft purple hydrangeas still nestled in his other arm.

“You like those?”

He actually does. Lance’s face grows ever hotter as he manages to squeak out: “They’re pretty.” What can he say? He’s a sucker for pretty things.

Shiro’s smile is very pretty. Gorgeous, even. “Then they’re yours. I’d rather they go to a date who actually deserves them.”

Oh. Oh. Lance’s vision goes all shoujo manga again, surrounding Shiro once more in twinkles and hearts. His own heart beats in double time, and he wishes it was inexplicable why but the answer is obvious: Lance has just set a new personal record by forming the world’s biggest, fattest crush on Shiro in less than ten minutes. And Shiro just referred to Lance as his _date._ Date. The word sounds sweet on Shiro’s tongue and fleetingly, Lance bets that it tastes even sweeter.

Geez, he’s already got it bad.

“H-hey… thanks, man,” Lance says, and he means it. He looks at Shiro sincerely.

“Don’t mention it, Lance. You’re already a much better date than I could’ve hoped for.” There it is again. Date. Lance wishes he had a jar that he put change in every time the word came up and made his heart go at a million miles per hour, just zooming around wildly in his chest. And, apparently, in the few minutes they’ve known each other, Shiro has already determined that Lance is a good date. An almost embarrassing amount of pride swells within Lance at the thought.

“Well, I can surpass expectations too,” he teases. Shiro laughs loudly then, because he knows Lance got him. They get to the car, still linked at the arms, but Shiro steers them to the passenger side so he can open the door for Lance. If his mom met Shiro, Lance is sure she’d love him immediately for being such a gentleman. He’s reminded of all the times she told him _“You always give your date flowers, mijo, and always open doors for them! If you don’t know how to treat your date, then don’t call yourself my son.”_

He snorts a little at the memory.

“Hm?” Shiro is already in the driver’s seat, buckling up.

“Oh, nothing.” Lance looks into the bouquet with a smile, and even if flowers don’t have faces he’s going to imagine that they are smiling back. Flowers seem like they’d smile. “Just thinking of all the ways I’m going to have to impress you.”

Warmly, Shiro replies, “You won’t have to try very hard. So, where to?”

“Well, there’s this dope restaurant over on 13th…” Lance turns his head to look out the window, but he still slides his gaze over to gauge Shiro’s reaction.

He isn’t at all disappointed when Shiro perks up, raising his eyebrows. “Are you talking about… The Yellow Lion?” he asks hopefully, turning the car on and shooting Lance a grin when he twists around while the car backs out. “I’ve been meaning to go for weeks.”

“Today’s your lucky day, then.”

There is something very attractive about Shiro and his arm slung over the back of his own seat, hand pressed lightly on Lance’s in true driver’s ed fashion. What a rule follower.

There is something even more attractive about the way he slouches and looks Lance up and down, smiling, before focusing his attention on the road. He sure smiles a lot.

“Yeah, it really is.”

Sirens blare from deep within Lance’s brain, trying desperately to drown out his indecent thoughts about someone he barely met. He just—he _said_ that! And like he meant it, really meant it.

The need to get on his knees washes over Lance right then, whether in adoration or something else.

He picks his jaw up off of his lap, tearing his eyes off of Shiro’s handsomely cut profile to also stare down the road. It’s quiet, save for the muffled tapping of Lance’s fingers against his jeans and his carefully measured breaths. Actually, is he breathing too loud? Are they coming out as ragged as they feel? Jesus Christ, what if Shiro thinks he’s having some kind of asthma attack—

“Do you want to plug your phone in?” Thank god for Shiro’s smooth voice, breaking Lance out of his own downward spiral while holding the aux cord in his right hand out to him. “Sorry, I should’ve asked before we left.”

Lance takes the aux. “Oh, it’s okay dude. What do you want me to play?”

“Anything is fine,” Shiro tells him, so Lance plugs the cord in and shuffles his music app. And then immediately skips the first song. He hears Shiro suck on his teeth, a disappointed sound.

“What, you like Shawn Mendes?” Lance asks, trying to suppress a laugh.

Shiro’s mouth goes crooked at the edges, tight like he’s trying not to laugh either. He shrugs and still won’t look at Lance. “I mean, he’s pretty good. One of the better people to come out of Vine.”

Lance does laugh at that, full-body, because it wasn’t something he thought he’d hear come from Shiro and it makes him want to start a list. _Weird Things Shiro Has Said but Lance Doesn’t Hate,_ maybe. Besides, he really can’t blame Shiro for liking the guy when he’s the one that has both albums downloaded on his phone. It’s a guilty pleasure, like Luis and his Britney playlist.

God, he’s laughing even harder now, and Shiro looks like he’s trying super duper hard to not join in. “Do you—” Lance takes a moment because he needs it— “Do you like vines?”

“We’re here,” Shiro says instead of answering Lance’s question, and he’s right: the Audi is pulling into a familiar parking lot.

Lance can’t help his body deflating under the weight of a disappointingly short car ride; he didn’t quite realize just how close they were from the park. And he was going to make them take the bus—turning that 6 minute drive, which would’ve been a 15 minute walk, into a 25 minute bus ride. _Imagine?_ He really, really hopes Shiro didn’t just do the same math in his own head and start cackling internally at how absurd and poorly-formed Lance’s original plan was. That would suck, and be kind of mean, but Lance still has a lot of faith that Shiro could never be mean.

Just as expected, when Lance pulls open the door to The Yellow Lion he’s immediately hit with the smell of good. Yeah, just good overall, because he’s not sure his brain has the capacity to distinguish each amazingly, criminally delicious dish that contributes to the unforgettable scent of the Garrett family restaurant. It’s not even necessary, because everything tastes as good as this place smells.

“Damn,” he hears Shiro whisper, as he takes in a deep breath, suddenly very close behind Lance. “I just realized how hungry I am.”

Lance winks at him from over his shoulder. “Well, you already know—”

“That today’s my lucky day,” Shiro finishes, cheeky, and walking in when Lance makes an _‘after you’_ motion with his hand. He takes a look around at all the busy tables, his expression just barely falling at the prospect of a wait. “So, do we seat ourselves or…?”

“Since you’re with _me,”_ Lance finds himself taking Shiro by his prosthetic before his mind even registers it, “We get VIP access to the good spot.”

He leads Shiro by the hand (his _hand!_ They’re holding hands!) over to a table that’s tucked away, hidden in the corner, right next to a window that lets in whatever’s left of the evening sun. Lance pulls out Shiro’s chair and presents the man with his seat.

“Aren’t you polite,” he says, taking it. He blinks up at Lance with eyes that are suddenly far too pretty, and true to character, Lance feels his knees go a little weak.

He sits down as well, shrugs in mock humility and says, “My mom raised me right. If she ever found out I was being anything but a gentleman to you, I’d never hear the end of it.” He has to repress a shudder at the thought of one of her infamous lectures, terrifying across any conceivable platform of communication. That time she chewed him out in an _Animoji message?_ Man, he still can’t bear to look at the dog emoji.

“Is that right? I’ll make sure to put a good word in for you after this, then.” Shiro leans on the table, towards Lance, with a sly expression and Lance really doesn’t know what to do about it. How does Shiro even do that—be so hot? All the time? With any look on his face? Plus, he’s prime Grade A beef and Lance probably looks like a stale, burnt breadstick in comparison.

Shiro is looking at him expectantly, ears slowly saturating with color. It occurs to Lance that he didn’t actually reply to what he said, or react at all whatsoever, and therefore truly embodying the breadstick analogy. He continues to be an outstanding specimen of the human race.

“I’m sorry, was that weird to say? Just pretend I didn’t—”

“It’s fine! It wasn’t you, I was… just…” Lance flounders, his eyes darting around to look anywhere except Shiro because he is so fucking embarrassed. For the both of them. He has secondhand embarrassment for someone he embarrassed in the first place; his emotions are just compounding thanks to this awful positive feedback loop.

Nonetheless, Lance forces himself to finally look at Shiro. “I was just acting like a breadstick.”

The three seconds that Shiro blinks at him, at an absolute loss, feel like three lifetimes. He opens his mouth, acloses it, opens it on more time. Closes it. And then dissolves into laughter, totally. Lance almost wants to search the floor for any disembodied cheeks, because this laughter has blown right past _‘hahaha’_ into full-on _‘lmao.’_

It’s not that funny, in Lance’s opinion. Or, well, it is. Now. Because Shiro thinks it’s funny, Shiro has tears in his eyes from how funny he must think it is. So what else can Lance do but laugh too, until his gut hurts and his chest is empty with exhaustion.

They’re just barely still going at it when Shiro sputters, “B-bread— _sticks—”_

“Stop!” Lance wheezes, slumped over the table as giggles still wrack his frame. He’s physically weak; if someone held a gun to his head and told him to pull it together, well. Pull the trigger, piglet.

Another few seconds pass, until they’re panting out the last few remnants of the joke from their lungs. Lance has his cheek pressed against the tabletop to cool his face down, Shiro in a similar position except his face is supported on an outstretched arm. They’re quiet for a bit longer, until:

“So, speaking of… you know… are we ever going to eat?” Shiro asks lightly, but his eyes are hungry. Lance realizes that in the good 15 minutes since they showed up, he never actually told Hunk that he and Shiro were here. Which, if they want to eat—and Lance really does want to eat—seems like a good idea.

He stands up, almost boneless. “I’ll be right back.”

Hunk is in the kitchen chopping something that Lance doesn’t care to identify, and jumps almost a foot in the air when he’s approached.

“You… have a date?” Lance doesn’t appreciate such an incredulous response when he tells Hunk about him and Shiro.

They peek through the windows of the doors that open into the dining room, where Shiro is scrolling idly through his phone as he waits. Hunk snorts.

“That’s not him. That guy’s not with you, dude.”

“Yes, he is!” The way Lance’s voice cracks at the end is kind of awful. It’s very discrediting, especially when combined with the everything else about him.

Hunk makes to cross his arms, before remembering that he is still holding a knife, so he doesn’t. The look he gives Lance is so intensely skeptical it briefly makes him question if Shiro is actually with him, or if he’s somehow been deluding himself the entire evening.

“How did you even meet him?”

“I’ll tell you later! Can you please just whip up something quick?” Lance is begging, this close to groveling into the tile. He doesn’t need to get into the whole story right now because he is starving, and also might be experiencing some kind of withdrawal from being away from Shiro for more than 5 minutes. He hopes Hunk will curb his nosiness for _once,_ in the interest of Lance’s gut and overall wellbeing.

Also, Shiro said he was hungry a long time ago, and if Lance’s mom knew he was depriving the guy of food, then that’s just another lecture he can hypothetically expect.

After staring into Lance’s best attempt at puppy eyes, Hunk sighs, relenting. He kicks Lance out, with a basket of garlic knots to tide them over while he gets to work. What a great guy honestly: he knows they’re Lance’s favorite.

There’s a literal gleam in Shiro’s eyes when he sees Lance approach with the basket, and the second Lance sets it down in front of him he snatches up a garlic knot and devours it.

“Damn, it never stood a chance,” Lance says, shaking his head mournfully and then grabbing one for himself. He grins at Shiro with his cheeks full.

“These are _so good,”_ groans Shiro as he reaches for another. He reveres it before taking a bite, which makes him sigh and endears Lance even more. “Oh my god.”

“Sometimes I wonder if Hunk made a deal with the devil in order to be such a good chef,” Lance says between bites. He’s not kidding. He remembers the first time Hunk tried teaching him how to cook, and even though they did the exact same steps in what Lance swears was the exact same way, his food still put Lance’s to a miserable shame.

Shiro looks sympathetic when Lance tells him this. Apparently, he can’t cook very well either, and it was no secret back at his college dorm, according to his stories.

“That was probably the worst attempt.” He’s running a hand through his hair, which looks so effortlessly cool in a way Lance isn’t sure mere mortals can achieve, even with Shiro’s bashful look. “I still can’t believe I forgot to put water in microwave macaroni.”

Lance laughs into his burger, which he immediately started tearing into as soon as Hunk brought them out like, five minutes ago. “Wait, sorry, so what did your roommates call you after you set off the fire alarm the third time?”

Shiro mumbles the name of the smoke detector from a fire safety video everyone had to watch in elementary school, and it would almost be too quiet to understand, if Lance didn’t already know what the name was. If he had any tears, or stamina, left after the Breadstick Thing, he probably would have laughed his own ass off the way Shiro did earlier (he’s still lowkey on the lookout for any missing cheeks). He opts instead for a chuckle.

“Quit it,” Shiro chides, but with no seriousness behind it. He hasn’t stopped smiling since they sat down, whether it was because of Lance’s jokes or his own, or his attentive listening to whatever garbage Lance was spewing at the moment. It’s definitely a good look for him. Lance vastly prefers smiling, eating Shiro to the sad, waiting one in the park earlier.

He can’t say he expected the night to go this way at all. At most, he thought Shiro would humor his request, and they would eat a relatively short meal in awkward silence, then bid each other only the barest of polite goodbyes before parting ways and never seeing each other again. At worst, he thought Shiro would sneer at Lance, or hate him for acknowledging whatever uncomfortable slash embarrassing situation he was in and making it ten times worse. He worried, briefly, that Shiro might be one of those people with good looks and absolutely nothing else to offer, but he is over the moon to be proven wrong. Shiro is very cool, and funny, and smart, and indeed handsome.

Even if they do part ways tonight and never see each other again, Lance definitely considers himself lucky to have gotten this far at all. It’s been a lot of fun.

He’s drinking lemonade, when Shiro says, “You know, I really am lucky I met you today.”

The drink gets caught in Lance’s throat and he has to cough unless he wants to risk death or permanent damage to his person.

“You—you’re—what?”

If he had to pick a favorite smile of Shiro’s, Lance thinks he would pick this very soft one he has right now.

“You’re a really great person, Lance. I’m so lucky to have gotten to spend time with you today.” God, he sounds so earnest that it physically pains Lance.

“I was just doing something nice, anyone else would have probably—” He’s panicking, holy crow is he panicking. This definitely wasn’t something he expected at all, and if he knew Shiro was going to come out and just say shit like that he would have prepared something, rehearsed a few lines in the bathroom or whatever. He can’t handle this. He can’t handle Shiro, who could probably punch through steel as easily as he’s punched through Lance’s bravado.

“Would you… can we do this again? Sometime soon?” Shiro’s voice softens at the end, and he swirls a fry in some ketchup as if to avoid making eye contact.

Lance could scream—but in a good way. He could scream and jump around and belt out the lyrics to whatever Shawn Mendes song fits this situation best, but he doesn’t. That’s probably too much. He needs to shoot for something a little… less.

“We absolutely fucking can. I would love that.”

See? Nothing too excited, but not too aloof either. Lance thinks it’s a happy medium.

“You promise you won’t stand me up?” Shiro quirks an eyebrow at him, his mouth curled into something resembling an easy smile, but it’s just a little too creased with uncertainty. He’s hopeful, but nervous.

Lance smiles at Shiro, and sips from his lemonade.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> [be cool about fire safety](https://youtu.be/8K7GfwolQWE?t=2m34s)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you to [moth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland) for being my beta and validating me <3
> 
> and thank _you_ for enjoying! take care,


End file.
